Chet Gets Hitched. Hoagie.

Welcome back, trypto-fans. Good God but I'm fat from holiday gluttony, stuffed with the fat of the land and the fat of the waters and the fat of the skies and the fat of the dark, cold void of space. But as I peer out from under the multifarious fat-folds a-drooping off my brow, what do I see upon returning but that my ole pal Chet Farmer has got himself engaged down there in Texas. Them's good news. Go forth and congratulate the boy in his bloggy comment section, because that's how we felicitate nowadays. Or send him some bourbon. Cheaper the better. He'll like that. Can't wait for the ceremonies, since it will be good to see the expected re-conglomeration of a bunch of people who are all going to be much more stout of belly and thin of hair (or thick of inappropriate hair) than I remember back in our salad days. And by salad days, I mean the days when we smoked a lot of salad. Now that we're all so mature and stable and settled, it's fortunate that I just received a shipment of my old analog photo albums, as therein are one or two choice images of Chet that will bring back some excellent repressed memories of times gone by. Watch this space. Meanwhile, the bride and groom should consult with Sat'n Spurs for the best in cowperson wedding couture. May I suggest the blue denim wedding gown?

Comments

Just think, meesh, you were there for that magical night when the hoagie joke was born. It's like the little child we all gave birth to that night. It would be, what, 12 years old by now? And as I recall, you wanted to strangle it in its crib ...